


Pistol Trick

by PinnedInsect



Category: Batman (Movies - Nolan), Dark Knight (2008)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-30
Updated: 2012-12-30
Packaged: 2017-11-22 22:33:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,292
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/615091
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PinnedInsect/pseuds/PinnedInsect
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Harvey Dent interrogates the Joker on the whereabouts of Rachel Dawes.  (one-shot;  semi-AU canon timeline)<br/>Warnings: mild violence; gun fellatio</p>
            </blockquote>





	Pistol Trick

**Author's Note:**

> ( originally posted May 2010 on LiveJournal ) 
> 
> Disclaimer: Characters owned by DC comics

Amber headlights fell on the battered, unused road leading up to the back entryway of the city's former crime unit. The building had been out of use since the 1950s and had been scheduled for demolition several times in the past, yet here it remained to this day in its dilapidated glory. Dim light provided by a generator escaped through barred windows. Three squad cars were already parked outside and Harvey pulled up to the curb beside them. Once inside, he met with the three officers responsible for capturing Gotham’s grinning terrorist (who apparently hadn’t put up much of a fight or any at all if it had only taken three men to subdue him, Harvey thought).   
  
The officers showed Harvey to the bolted door of what had once been used as an interrogation chamber. They were then instructed to wait downstairs and to contact Jim Gordon in 10 minutes. Harvey was going in alone.  
  
One officer voiced his concern; “You sure?”  
  
“Positive. If there’s trouble I’ll call,” Harvey replied, hurried but confident. There were no further questions asked. The men were happy to let Dent deal with the Joker however he saw fit and turned to leave.  
  
As the officers proceeded downstairs, Harvey checked the time on his watch. He then shoved his way into the cramped, windowless room where the Joker was being held. A single bulb hung from the cracked ceiling, burning brightly in the gloom. Directly below it the Joker was seated with ankles bound to either leg of a steel chair and wrists cuffed behind the chair’s back. His coat had been removed, presumably to allow for tighter binding and to prevent him from accessing any weapons concealed within the jacket. Beneath a shadowy brow, the Joker’s dark eyes gleamed with a sinister light from their blackened, runny sockets. His knee bounced slightly but otherwise the clown sat perfectly calm, complacent in his restraints. When his gaze dipped keenly to the holstered gun at Harvey’s hip, those hideous scars bunched together at the corner of his mouth in a smirk.  
  
Harvey didn’t normally carry his gun, an S&W Model 36, especially in plain sight but this time he knew he would need it. He also didn’t miss the glimmer of amusement on the Joker’s countenance as he stepped inside. Just seeing that face, that look in those eyes, just being this close to the man who’d caused so much pain made Harvey’s blood boil and run hot in his veins. But he refused to lose his head to this madman and kept his volatile fury hidden beneath a veneer of controlled rage. The room was still ringing with the strident sound of the door slamming in its hinges when that unctuous voice, oh-so-familiar in Gotham’s nightmares these days, began to speak.  
  
“Aaaah,” the Joker’s tone lilted playfully up and down, “house call from Gotham’s own White Knight. Are you here for little ol’ me?” Clearly, Harvey was in no mood for this. He stood, jaw squared and face hard as stone, with a hand on his hip some three or four feet before the seated man, close enough, he noted, to plant a foot directly into the Joker’s sternum. But Harvey didn’t intend to resort to violence. He must keep his cool, must handle this the right way or he wouldn’t be fit to carry his newly appointed title the way he defines it.  
  
“What did you do with her?” The calm in Harvey’s voice was heavily forced, each word sharply spoken.   
  
The Joker took his time answering. His mottled brow hitched, pushing creases into his forehead, and his eyes rolled to and fro beneath heavy eyelids like some Broadway stage act. After two seconds Harvey’s fists were clenched and aching to throttle him.  
  
Finally, the answer came in a slow, suggestive drawl, “What  _didn’t_  I do with her?”   
  
Though Harvey’s eyes remained steady, the Joker could see livid rage flare up just beneath their icy, blue exterior. Already he could tell this was going to be easier than expected and it was going to be quick. He’d just have to try and make it last, savor it for as long as possible.  
  
Harvey knew he couldn’t hide much from that piercing stare. The man—the monster—before him had a way of seeing into a person’s mind else he wouldn’t be so goddamn good at what he did. Knowing he’d already blown part of his own façade, Harvey turned away momentarily and drew in a deep breath through his nostrils, a vain attempt to calm his nerves. Rachel must be alive, he assured himself inwardly, or there would be no point in this. He would know if she wasn’t because the Joker would have paraded it long ago, left her body to be seen by all and especially by him. But mostly, he tells himself, she was alive because she wouldn’t have given in. Her spirit was too strong. The Joker was just using her as a weapon to…  
  
“I know what you’re thinking,” the voice interrupted his thoughts. Harvey, not realizing he’d started pacing, didn’t stop. The Joker moistened his lips and continued, “That I… have a motive. A master plan meticulously arranged to snare you. But that isn’t true.” His wrists rattled the handcuffs behind his back where the chain was looped around a steel bar in the chair’s structure; the habit of using his hands in his speech didn’t end just because they were out of view. “See, what happens tonight…it all depends on your decisions, right down to the itty bitty ones. You. You’re the one whose choices are going to determine what happens to her, not mine.”   
  
Harvey froze in his steps. “Bullshit!”   
  
He’d yelled it so loudly his voice echoed in the confined space, reverberating off of empty walls. The Joker merely leaned back in his seat wearing a feigned look of shock, scarcely managing to fight off a grin. Ignoring it, Harvey continued.   
  
“You think I don’t know how you pride yourself for being so different from all the Maroni’s in Gotham?” Harvey had turned to face the object of his hate once again. “You’re different all right, but only because you’re a terrorist with the idea that he can make a mockery of the justice system and bring order to its knees. And if you think you can do all that, one man, you’re completely deluded.” Even Harvey didn’t quite believe himself. He knew what one man was capable of doing to an entire society if past events in history were any indication. But this time would be different. This time he was here to stop it, and if he couldn’t do it, the Batman would. “You’re a joke and a bad one. Now, _where is she?_ ”   
  
Despite what his interrogator may have believed, the Joker was eager to divulge his victim’s whereabouts, and he intended to do so shortly. But not yet. Not until he’d had himself a good glimpse of the man behind the polished surface, the real Harvey Dent.   
  
“Well, of course! Me, I'm as bad a joke as anyone else.” The Joker’s shoulders rose and fell as he spoke. His tone darkened then and he leaned forward in his seat as far as the bindings would allow. “The difference is I know what I am. You, on the other hand, are oblivious. There's nothing more pathetic than a bad joke that demands to be taken seriously. In fact it's so pathetic, it's funny.” He began to ease back again only to straighten up as if he’d just remembered something. “Oh, and the justice system? It does a fine job mocking itself.”  
  
Harvey was wearing his political poker face, the one that gave away nothing and stood firm even under the vitriol of harsh criticisms from his opponents. It was the face that had won Gotham’s trust and in this moment, it looked as though he could win this interrogation. A quick beat of silence passed before Harvey spoke with renewed composure.  
  
“I see how it’s going to be. You won’t talk until we play a game.” He drew something from his pocket and flashed one silver face of his Liberty piece at the Joker. “How about this one?”  
  
“Now we’re getting somewhere.” The Joker shifted in his seat, excitedly anticipating what was to come. Sure enough Harvey reached for the Model 36 fastened to his belt. The Joker’s smirk widened to a grin as the chamber was exposed to show him the loaded state of the pistol. He’d been waiting for this moment since the newly appointed DA had entered the room and he watched with rapt fascination while Harvey cocked the hammer.  
  
There were reasons why Harvey didn’t interrogate cases like the Joker in the MCU where others, especially Jim Gordon, could bear witness. This was one of them. Of course, his chosen method of interrogation would be completely out of line if Harvey had any intention of using it exactly as it was designed. But he didn’t and the double-sided nature of the coin was proof of it. Even so, should anyone ever catch him doing this, he would lose everything he’d worked so tirelessly to attain. He would give up his seat by his own will and step down with respect for the law. But when the business got dirty and required him to step outside of the law for justice, this was the method that worked. Because every person, every criminal, every animal, had an instinctual fear of death. Right?  
  
“You know how it goes,” Harvey was saying. “Heads, you’re lucky. Tails—”  
  
“Tails, _you’re_ lucky,” the Joker finished. “I’m familiar with the rules, Dent. Let’s play.”   
  
Cold metal jabbed hard against the Joker’s temple while Harvey flipped. The coin was then slapped onto the back of his hand with the verdict.   
  
“Lucky. This time.” There was an edge like steel in Harvey’s voice. “Ready to talk yet? No? Let’s go again.”   
  
A string of hummed chuckles arose from the Joker’s throat as he peered sidelong at Harvey, the gun still pressed to his temple. “Round two.” His tongue touched the scar tissue in the corner of his mouth.   
  
Again, the coin was flipped only to recreate the previous results.  
  
“You’re a lucky man,” said Harvey. “Too lucky. Want to tell me where she is before your luck runs out?”  
  
But the Joker only seemed amused. “I think you got one more in you. C’mon, one more round and if I’m lucky I’ll talk. Third time’s the charm.”  
  
Harvey fought to keep the tremble out of his hand. He was beginning to lose his calm, his patience, and his hope. To his horror the Joker was actually eager to continue. This was unprecedented. The interrogation tactic that had always worked in the past was failing him now. There was no trace of fear in the Joker’s eyes, only the same jeering glimmer that always appeared to be laughing at him. It chilled Harvey to the bone to think that glimmer would remain even when the odds were against him and the trigger was pulled. A bullet could shatter the clown’s skull and he would still be smiling.  _What in God’s name was wrong with this man?_  
  
“You think I won’t do it?” Harvey gritted his teeth. The Joker’s neck twisted painfully as the pistol dug harder into his temple. “You think I couldn’t find her without you? You think _he_  couldn’t find her?”  
  
There was no need to specify who ‘he’ was.   
  
“You’re right,  _he_  could.” The Joker grunted and winced at the pain, entirely for show, then grinned once again at Harvey with eyes that knew too much. “You can tell yourself you can’t pull the trigger, Harvey Dent, but you can’t say you don’t want to.”   
  
Silent, Harvey stood holding his gun on the Joker, lips drawn together in an angry line. He was caught in a rare moment of indecision and was trying desperately to overcome it in order to determine the next course of action. The silver dollar rested on his thumb prepared to grant the clown another chance to talk, but it didn’t mean he would. At this rate they could ‘play the game’ all night while time ran out. Either way he looked at it, the Joker would always have the upper hand.  
  
Sensing Harvey’s frustration, the Joker sank farther into his chair and raised his chin up until the tip of the barrel touched his jaw. He brushed his scars against it before slowly wrapping his lips around the cold steel. Harvey looked on in confusion. At first he’d thought perhaps this was nothing more than a bold show of preference for taking the bullet in the throat, but his stomach turned at the sultry look in the man’s eyes.   
  
The Joker tongued the aperture at the end of the barrel and found by the acrid taste that it had been recently fired. His tongue flicked into view between his damaged cheek and the side of the barrel, following the circumference of the muzzle before disappearing. He straightened up in his seat, sanguine greased lips crawling higher up the pistol’s short barrel. Saliva welled up in his mouth and he breathed out a sound that was part moan, part chuckle. Already his bottom teeth were hitting the bullet chamber and he could feel in his mouth Harvey’s grip trembling in rage through the steel. The Joker sank down into his seat again, lips sliding down the barrel but not completely. Seldom did he break eye contact with his interrogator and when he did, it was brief. Otherwise he might not see the moment when Harvey snapped.  
  
As the Joker carried on, Harvey refused to let it visibly affect him, refused to let the murderer get a rise out of him. Not being one to back down from a challenge, he met the Joker’s gaze without a flinch.   
  
In that moment Harvey wished the two faces of the Liberty piece weren’t twins.  
  
Once again the Joker straightened, arching his back to reach as high as he could. This time he opened his mouth wider until his bottom front teeth nearly hit the trigger guard. But try as he might, the gun was simply too large to fit beyond his teeth so he made do with what he could. Reaching ever higher, he cocked his head to the side to let the metal graze the slick, damaged tissue of his inner cheek where it caught and scraped over uneven mounds of improperly healed flesh.  
  
Harvey felt the gun kick softly in his hand when the Joker swallowed, saw the larynx bob in his throat. It was absolutely nauseating—infuriating—and Harvey struggled to keep himself in check. But the tightness in his mouth, the way his jaw protruded slightly forward, betrayed his disgust.  
  
From the moment the Joker started this sickening act, Harvey was caught between pulling the trigger (which he knew he couldn’t do no matter how much he wanted to) and shoving the pistol harder into the Joker’s mouth to hurt him, crack his teeth on the steel or maybe gag him. The heat of the Joker’s breath washed over his hand leaving an unwanted sensation of moisture clinging to his skin. Then something warm and wet moved against his knuckle behind the trigger guard. How the Joker could have managed to reach his tongue that far was beyond Harvey, or perhaps it was only his imagination at play. It didn’t matter now. Before he was even wary of his own actions, Harvey ripped the gun from the Joker’s mouth and took it in his left hand while his right arm lashed out. It was as though he were watching someone else’s fist connect solidly with the Joker’s painted jaw hard enough to send him toppling backwards to the floor, chair and all.   
  
The Joker landed with a clatter, head and shoulders hitting cold cement, knees and feet now raised in the air as his legs were still chained to the front legs of the chair. Laughter, pitched high and raw, rang throughout the enclosed space in staccato bursts. Pain exploded through his jaw as well as the back of his head and up his arms and wrists. He tasted blood in his mouth from various cuts left by the pistol, all of which barely registered in his mind.  
  
Ignoring the noise that had erupted in the room, Harvey backed away, wide eyes trained on his fist. Red and black paint from the clown’s face was smeared over his knuckles. The fingers unclenched and in his hand the Liberty piece had pressed a circular pattern into his palm. He’d unwittingly done precisely what the Joker had wanted: lost control and given the man just the kind of attention he craved. Now it was time to put an end to it. Without another word Harvey turned to leave the Joker exactly as he was on the floor strapped to the overturned chair.  
  
The Joker caught on quickly. “Wait! Don’t pack up your toys and leave just yet. I’m ready to talk.” He lay squirming in the chair, arms trapped and aching beneath him.  
  
After a moment’s contemplation, Harvey turned away from the door. “This is your last chance to talk before I leave you here to rot.” He placed a shoe on the edge of the seat between the Joker’s legs and pushed down hard with all his weight, forcing the chair back into an upright position, then stepped quickly away. The Joker came with it, head snapping forward from the momentum. He continued to chuckle as his head lolled woozily to one side. The opposite shoulder rolled in its socket with a series of muffled pops followed by a similar movement of his jaw. Then he started to talk.  
  
“Don’t worry, Harv, your hunny bunch is alive, tucked in safe and sound right where I left her.” There was no mistaking that sinister glint in his eyes.  
  
Harvey didn’t skip a beat: “Which is…? Tell me.”  
  
The Joker told him.   
  
Thirty seconds later Harvey stormed out of the tiny interrogation chamber with the information he had come for and a minute to spare. Behind him the door was bolted shut leaving the Joker chained and fettered inside. While making his exit, Harvey thought he’d heard the psychopath sing ‘nighty night’ in a playful voice but, unnerving as it was, he ignored it. Cell phone in hand, he was about to contact Gordon himself when the lights in the hallway went dead and he was promptly ambushed. He tried to reach for his gun, tried to put up a fight but quickly found himself outnumbered. A whiff of something chemical was the last thing he was aware of before his consciousness rapidly disintegrated.   
  
  
Outside, three men in stolen police attire loaded the body of Harvey Dent, drugged and unconscious, into a truck parked behind the building. He’d been already stripped of his pistol and cell phone.  
  
“Keep him alive.” The Joker joined them, pulling on his violet overcoat with a jump of his shoulders.   
  
“You want him in the bag?” asked one of the thugs nodding toward something in the back of the truck.  
  
“Of course. Nothing but the finest luxury for our sleeping beauty.” He climbed onto the bed of the truck while the men lowered Dent into a black body bag. In the process, Harvey grunted and began to stir sluggishly.   
  
“Shhh…shhhh,” the Joker hushed him tenderly while holding a rag to Harvey’s face until the man went still again. Then, giggling quietly as though in the midst an elaborate fraternity prank, he pulled the zipper over Harvey Dent's head.


End file.
